


Strays

by KT418, LB714



Category: Hannibal - Fandom, Hemlock Grove
Genre: Crossover Pairings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KT418/pseuds/KT418, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LB714/pseuds/LB714
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Rumancek and his mother, Lynda, are on the road and pull into a motel in Virginia. When Lynda leaves Peter for a few days, Peter meets a young FBI agent named Will Graham, and the two instantly connect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strays

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Hannibal/Hemlock Grove crossover story. We do not own these characters and have merely borrowed them. We will return them unharmed to their owners.

"Honey-bun, wake up." Lynda's voice brings Peter to consciousness. They'd been sharing the driving, but for this last stretch Lynda took over and let Peter doze. And doze he did. Traveling around wiped him out, and here they are in another nameless town. Well, it has a name, thinks Peter, but it's not important. They won't be staying long.

He stretches in his seat and glances around. They've pulled into a parking space at another cheap motel, this time in Virginia, surrounded by woods. Peter looks over at Lynda, who shrugs.

"It's private," she says. "More room for my baby to run around tomorrow night." Then she pats his cheek affectionately.

Peter looks back at the motel. The gray afternoon sky doesn't help to make it look any more appealing. Just once he'd like to stay in a real house, maybe one with a fireplace. But tomorrow night is the full moon, and he needs someplace private to turn.

"I'll check us in," Lynda says energetically. Peter gets out of the car and stretches again, raising his arms to the sky and yawning. When Lynda returns with the key, Peter grabs his bag—nothing more than a shabby knapsack stuffed with his few articles of clothing.

Lynda surveys the room. She and Peter have stayed in worse, and the cost means she can leave him with a little money for meals. "You sure this is okay, sweetie?"

"Home sweet home," Peter says with a smile, then flops down on the bed nearest the window. "It's fine, really," he adds seriously. He knows it's not easy for his mother either, moving around so much, keeping him safe.

Lynda perches on the edge of the bed and brushes Peter's hair back from his face, thinking of how many times she's done this since he was a tousled, sturdy toddler. You had to be sturdy to live the life they lead, and a small frame disguised an inner toughness and fierce protectiveness of her son. She thinks of the many things she'd like to say to him, but in the end simply says, "Try not to eat _too_ much junk food while I'm gone, okay?"

Peter gives her a small smile. He's aware of the sacrifices she's made over the years to provide for him, especially after Peter's father took off. "When will you be back?"

"Three days. Four at the most."

"Tell Destiny I said hi." He's putting up a cheery front, but he's not keen on being left alone for so many days. His mother has always been his best company, since he's never been able to make friends for very long.

Lynda sighs. She has to see Destiny; Peter can't be in the city. They both know it, but it doesn't make it any more pleasant. "I will. And I'll try to make it as short as I can."

Peter nods and sees his mother to the door. They hug, and she leaves. Peter waves from the door as the car pulls away, then glances back at the empty room. Time for a walk.

The nearest town is a mile down the road, an easy walk for an eighteen-year-old. The town itself isn't much to look at—a few streets, nondescript stores, a couple of fast-food joints, a couple of restaurants. Peter manages to shoplift a paperback from a bookstore and picks up a roast beef sandwich with some of the money Lynda left him.

When he arrives back at the motel, as he fishes in his jacket pocket for the room key, he catches movement from the corner of his eye. Curious, and with nothing better to do, Peter walks cautiously to the end of the block of rooms and peers around the corner. There, sniffing a trashcan is a mangy mutt, its fur matted and dirty. The dog looks up immediately when it senses Peter's presence, sniffs the air, and whines. Peter had forgotten about the bag of food he'd been holding.

"Hey, you hungry?" he asks the dog.

In response, the dog licks his muzzle and whines. Peter crouches down slowly, opens the bag, and holds out half of the sandwich. The dog whines again, but doesn't move. Peter puts the sandwich on the ground and steps back. At first the dog remains where it is, then slowly starts to inch forward, sniffing the ground hungrily. When he reaches the sandwich, he eyes Peter and lowers his head, keeping his eyes on Peter. Peter nods and takes another step backward, and this time the dog sniffs the sandwich and takes a bite. And another.

Satisfied, Peter strides to his room and fills a plastic cup with water, but when he returns to the place he left the dog, the animal is gone, and so, Peter notes, is the sandwich. With a sigh, he heads back to his room but leaves the cup of water outside the door in case the dog comes back.

After an afternoon of bad TV, Peter stuffs the paperback in his pocket and wanders back into town to find something for dinner. The sun has long since gone down, and the motel room seems more depressing than ever. He doesn't feel like eating in the room, and he happens upon a diner in the center of the town. Inside, the place has the air of an eatery that's been around since the town was founded, but it's clean and comfortable, and Peter takes a booth in the back.

On the other side of the room he spies another booth, occupied with three young men and a woman, and immediately he gets that feeling in his balls. Cops. Cops, cops, cops. They're not dressed like cops—they're not wearing uniforms—but Peter can smell it. They're the law. If he gets up and leaves now, he'll draw attention, and that's the last thing he needs. So Peter keeps his head down, and when a waitress comes over to take his order, he quietly asks for a cheeseburger and a Coke, then pulls out his paperback and begins to read.

Will is enjoying his meal with the other agents, but at the same time, he's aware of everyone else in the diner. They come here pretty often, so he’s already decided that the waitress is in an abusive relationship and the cook is in love with her but can't get her to leave her abuser. But the kid in the back is new. He's nervous—he's got that "I didn't do anything, but I don't want the cops noticing me" hunch to his shoulders.

Peter somehow manages to get through his meal without incident, keeping one eye in his book and one eye on the not-cops. One in particular seems to be quiet, merely absorbing everything around him but still somehow present in the conversation.

Anxious to leave and get back to the privacy of the motel, Peter asks for another burger, to go, pays for his food, and leaves.

Will sips his coffee and watches the kid who's trying his hardest to be invisible slip out. He wonders what his story is.

Peter is almost relieved to be back at the motel. He returns to the spot where he found the dog earlier, and sure enough there he is. Peter reaches into the paper bag he brought back from the diner and lays the burger on the ground. "Bon appetite," he says, then heads back to his room.

*******

The next day is more of the same, until the late afternoon when Peter’s hormones start bubbling and he can feel the change coming on. He wanders into the woods behind the motel, going as deep as he can without getting lost, and removes his clothes. He’s turned by himself many times, but usually his mother is nearby, and tonight he’s alone and somehow that makes this whole process that much sadder.

The following morning he stumbles back to where he left his belongings and manages to make it back to the motel before collapsing on the bed.

By mid-afternoon he’s up again. He finds a convenience store down the road and picks up some cold meat for himself and the stray dog.

******

It's the voices that awaken him. Shouting, then what sounds like a lamp shattering. Then a door slamming, then nothing. Peter stares at the ceiling and sighs. Don’t get involved, he warns himself, even though his instincts tell him to check out the room next door. But he doesn't, and after a while he closes his eyes and falls back asleep.

******

Will gets called to the crime scene the next day. He's getting good at analyzing crime scenes, but it still takes a lot of concentration. And it definitely doesn't get any easier, seeing the blood, the death, the terrible injuries that one human being can inflict on another.

Peter tries not to think about what he'd heard the night before as he wanders around town the next day, but when he returns to the motel and sees the cops milling about, his instinct is to run. But it’s too late to turn around and walk the other way, as one of the officers points at him and speaks to a young man dressed in a suit and tie.

Will had been taking in the exterior of the crime scene—just another cheap, sad motel like thousands of others dotting America's landscape—when one of the local cops points out someone walking across the parking lot. Will turns and recognizes the kid form the diner the other night.

"What's a kid like that doing in a place like this?" asks the cop. "We oughtta question him. Maybe he saw something."

"He's just a kid," Will says, almost automatically.

"Kids see things," the cop fires back, gesturing for Peter to come over.

Peter's chest tightens and he freezes, glancing about, but it’s clear that the cop is gesturing to him. Keep it short and sweet, his mother's voice says in his head. Slowly but with purpose, Peter approaches the officer and the young man he’s talking to.

"What's your name, son?" the cop asks, taking a pad and pen from his shirt pocket.

"Peter, sir. Peter Rumancek."

"Are you staying at this motel, Peter?"

"Yes, sir." Peter swallows. Whatever he'd heard last night must have been worse than he thought.

He's going about this all wrong, Will thinks, then speaks up. "Hi, Peter, I'm Will Graham, with the FBI," he says with a friendly smile. "Sorry if we startled you," he continues, rolling his eyes at the local officer very slightly, but enough for Peter to notice.

Peter eyes the young FBI agent warily but returns the smile. He seems too young to be doing this, but then again, Peter fortunately hasn't had enough dealings with the FBI to know. "Can I help you with something, sir?"

"I hope so. There was an incident here last night, and we're talking to everyone who is staying here to find out if they saw or heard anything. So we'd like to ask you a few questions, okay?"

Peter shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Yes, sir."

"You don't have to call me sir."

The cop is dangerous. The cop will lock him up for no reason. But this man, this agent, isn't. It's the eyes. There's something about the eyes. They're intelligent and curious, and they bore into Peter. And that makes Peter uneasy. "Okay, si—okay."

Will turns to the officer and suggests that he see if there are any hits from all the plates they've run from the parking lot, and the man ambles off. "Okay, Peter, let's start with how old you are."

Peter is both impressed and wary of the fact that this young agent has authority over a seasoned cop. "Eighteen, sir." Then, "Sorry," and he scratches his beard and smiles nervously.

"It's okay." Will leads Peter to an ancient-looking picnic table on the edge of the parking lot and sits, gesturing for Peter to do the same. "Traveling alone?"

Unsure how to answer, Peter hesitates. If he lies, the agent will wonder why he's traveling alone. If he tells the truth, he'll ask where his mother is. So he opts for the truth, but he doesn't embellish. He shakes his head. "No."

"Who are you traveling with?"

Peter fidgets. "My mom."

"Was she here last night, too?"

"No." Peter's eyes roam the parking lot.

Will taps Peter lightly on the arm. "Peter, it's okay. You're eighteen, not eight. Unless you tell me there's something I'm missing, there's nothing wrong with your being here alone."

The touch is gentle and kind, and Peter doesn't flinch. He nods. There was indeed something he was hiding, but it's not at all what the young FBI agent would expect.

"What room are you in?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Peter returns his gaze to the agent. "Seven," he says.

Right next door to the crime scene. "And you were in your room last night?"

Peter nods. "What happened?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. Did you hear or see anything unusual?"

With a shrug, Peter replies, "Just voices. Maybe a fight."

"Do you know what time?"

Peter stares down at the picnic table, scarred with years of knife carvings. "After midnight. Maybe one?"

"Anything else you remember?"

"I heard a crash. Like glass breaking."

Will nods as if that fits. "Did you see anyone coming in or out of the room next to you, even earlier?"

"No, sir." Force of habit. Again, he scratches his beard, hoping the conversation is over. Something about this man makes him uneasy. He’s too intelligent. He asks all the right questions.

Will appraises the boy, then starts searching his pockets for a business card. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" He holds out the card. "Call me if you think of anything that could help, okay?"

Yes, si—Mr. Graham," Peter says, correcting himself with a shy smile. There's something unnerving about this man—he seems so honest, so trustworthy. The complete opposite of Peter.

"That's Special Investigator Graham to you," Will says with a grin.

Smiling again, Peter rubs the back of his neck. "Special Investigator Graham." He holds up the business card and slips it in his jacket pocket, then turns to leave. As he walks toward his room, he looks over his shoulder and gives the young agent a wave. He's not sure why he does it.

Will watches Peter as he returns to his room, then rejoins the other cops and agents. They compare notes, interview more potential witnesses, continue working the case.

The conversation he had earlier with the young agent—with Will Graham—plays out in Peter's mind the rest of the day. At one point, he takes out the business card and stares at it, memorizing the words, though again he doesn't know why.

When Lynda calls that evening, he tells her that everything is fine. She doesn't need to know that a crime has taken place and that Peter might be a witness.

After he hangs up the phone, he decides to go back to the diner for dinner. Maybe Will Graham will be there. But he isn't. Peter eats quickly, then orders another hamburger to go. He hasn't seen the dog all day, and he's concerned that something has happened.

Will returns to the motel to spend some more time at the crime scene. Now that the techs are through, it's just a matter of time before the room is released, and he wants to make sure he's missed nothing. As he gazes out the streaked, dirty window, he thinks he sees movement near the end of the building.

The dog gobbles the burger Peter laid on the ground, but this time he allows Peter to touch him. Peter runs a hand through the matted fur, his heart catching in his chest. Nothing should have to live like this. If he thought he could get away with it, he'd hide the dog in his room, but when Lynda returns in a few days, she will not be happy.

Will steps around the corner. "Is he hurt or just hungry?"

Peters starts and almost stumbles as he raises himself to standing. He suddenly feels defensive. "Hungry. But I just fed him."

"That was nice of you. Most people don't care."

The dog cowers in Agent Graham's presence, but he doesn’t run. This surprises Peter. Graham seems to have a way with both people and animals that both scares him and intrigues him. "He doesn't deserve to go hungry."

"No dog does," Will says, kneeling down and offering his hand for the dog to sniff. "I kind of, um, collect strays."

Peter's head snaps around. "What?"

"Oh, that sounded bad, didn't it? Dogs, Peter. I have six formerly stray dogs."

"Six?" Unconsciously, Peter puts a protective hand on the dog.

"They're just so sad. I give them a good home." Will smiles crookedly. "At least they seem to like it."

It's better than being on the street, thinks Peter. "You want to take him home. That's it, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I don't want to leave him out here if I don't have to. Unless . . . Do you want to take him?"

Peter shakes his head. There's no way he and Lynda can take a dog with them when they don’t even know where they're going next. "I can't."

Once again, Will gets a sense of loneliness from Peter's demeanor. Without thinking, he says, "Want to help me get him home?"

Going to a stranger's house—bad idea. Going to a cop's house, worst idea ever. Peter stands and backs up. "I'm sorry, I can't." But when Peter rises, the dog immediately follows.

"I'm not sure this little guy is giving you a choice."

Peter stretches his neck and rolls his eyes. How did he get into this mess? His mother would cuff him on the ear if she knew he was going to go off with a cop. "Go on," he says to the dog, but the dog just whines and paws Peter’s legs.

"How can you resist that face?"

He can't. That's the truth. He knows he'll follow Agent Graham, and for some reason, his instincts tell him, it will be okay.

"Can you hold him while I drive?" Will is already moving toward his car, a black SUV parked at the end of the lot. Peter doesn't have to coax the dog to follow him. As soon as he moves the dog is at his heels. And after he climbs into the back seat, the dog hesitates but then jumps in after him, excited, tail wagging.

The dog is calmer than Peter, who suddenly wonders if he's making a mistake. After all, he doesn't know where they're going, and his mother has no idea where he is.

Will senses Peter's hesitation. He knows that while his empathy is strong, his social graces are not. It takes some thought to realize that what he sees as two dog lovers taking care of a stray might look less than innocent to anyone else. "Sorry, is this weird?" he asks, looking at Peter through the rearview mirror.

Peter looks out the window, then at Will. "A little. Do you always take strangers home?"

"Yeah, but they usually have four legs."

This makes Peter smile, and he looks out the window again and chuckles. The dog skitters over his lap, looking from one window to the other, clearly happy to be going somewhere.

Peter tries to pay attention to the drive, though. He wants to know where they're going in case he needs to find his way back. Always have an escape route—something Nicolae taught him.

Will pulls in to his driveway and turns to Peter, his hand unconsciously reaching to pet the dog. "Let's bring him around back. I have an old sink where we can give him a flea bath before we let him in the house."

Peter's mouth drops open at the sight of the house, and it stays that way as he opens the car door. To Peter, the two-story house on a quiet suburban street looks like a mansion, like something out of a fairy tale. He's certainly never lived in a house like this, never even come close. He follows Will to the backyard, a cozy but spacious piece of land, fenced in for privacy, with a small patio. Peter is aware that the dog has become less nervous and seems genuinely happy to be here. "I think he likes you," Peter says.

"He knows where his next meal is coming from."

"You'll take care of him?" He can't hide the note of fear in his voice, that the young FBI agent will give him a place to stay for the night, a meal, and then put him back out on the street the next day. It's in Peter's nature to distrust any act of kindness.

"Let's get him cleaned up and then I'll take you both in to meet the rest of the gang. If that doesn't tell you how I'll take care of him, nothing will."

Peter nods and pets the dog, reassuring him that everything will be okay. He holds the dog while Agent Graham gently bathes him, and he can tell from the way the man handles the dog that he knows what he's doing. "You're really good at this," he remarks when Graham is finished.

"I've done it a lot."

"Right, six times," Peter replies, smiling as he rubs soap suds into the dog's fur. "Why do you do it?"

Will looks away, his face shadowed. "I've always loved dogs, but it's more than that. In my work I see the worst of human nature. Which makes coming home to a houseful of dogs really comforting."

Peter wants to ask about his work—how could someone so young see so much horror? But to probe into Graham's life would open the door for Graham to probe into his life, and Peter isn’t about to let Graham see what horror is right in front of him. "How do your girlfriends feel about that?" Peter asks with a grin. It just slipped out. He had no intention of prying into the man's personal life, but there it was.

Will considers the question. "You know, most women are scared off by the chasing killers part before I ever get to tell them about the dogs. Maybe I should lead with that, you know?"

"Chicks love dogs," Peter says with a shrug. They've just hosed off the dog, who is now shaking himself dry. Peter is still impressed with the dog's change of behavior. Once skittish, he seems at home here. "I should probably be getting back,” he blurts out. As he says this, thunder rumbles in the distance.

"You're not going anywhere."

Peter turns his eyes toward the sky. It's clear a storm is on the way. He can smell it in the air. Even the dog looks up and then looks at Peter expectantly. Then Peter looks at the house, so warm and welcoming, with lights burning in the windows, presumably for the dogs while Will is out. This is not a house of danger—he can feel that in his balls. He turns to Graham and shrugs. "Okay."

Will laughs and wraps a towel around the dog. "Nothing fazes you, does it? A creepy old guy takes you to his house and says you can't leave and you just take it in stride."

Peter shrugs again. "You're not that old."

"You're a funny guy," Will says, splashing a little water at Peter.

And you're cute, thinks Peter, but instead he flinches and swears in mock annoyance, then shakes his shaggy hair. "Nice move," he says.

Will grins and sends a much bigger splash Peter's way.

Peter jumps back, but his shirt catches most of the water nonetheless. "Hey," he warns, then grins. Just then, the first drops of rain begin to fall.

Will glances skyward, then down at the dog, who's still sitting contentedly in his arms. "Come on in," he says, leading the way inside. "It's about time I fed everyone."

Peter follows without questioning what he's doing. He's resigned to the fact that he trusts Agent Graham, though he's not entirely sure why. But once inside, once six happy mutts rush to greet their master, he knows.

Will drops down to his knees to introduce the new dog to his larger, more rambunctious roommates, and they sniff both the dog and Peter curiously.

When the dogs see Peter, they immediately flock to him, heads lowered in a submissive posture, and begin to whine. Peter backs up a step. He knows why the dogs are behaving this way, but Agent Graham doesn't, and he certainly doesn't want to draw any more attention than he already has. "Hey," he says, crouching down so the dogs can sniff him. "It's okay." He reaches out to pet one, and once the dog sees that Peter is not angry with them, it licks Peter's hand.

Will watches the interaction curiously. After the moment of tension, the dogs clearly adore Peter, and Peter seems a second away from rolling around on the floor with them. "You never had a dog?"

Peter shakes his head. "We move around too much. We had a cat for a while." The dogs are much more friendly now, and they all vie for Peter's attention. He tries his best to pet each of them, and soon they are pouncing playfully all over him.

"Well, if you're in the area for a while, you're welcome to come play with them." Will says, surprising himself. He's usually not this impulsive.

With some difficulty, Peter manages to extract himself from the dog pile and rises to face Will. "I don't know how long we'll be here, but thanks." He surprises himself when his heart catches in his chest.

Will leads the way into the kitchen, where he begins to fill dog bowls with food and water causing a minor frenzy among the dogs. "So, I eat a lot of takeout," he tells Peter, "but I have some good leftovers."

Peter puts a hand on his stomach. "That's all right," he replies stepping aside to let the dogs through. "I ate already." He gazes around the spacious kitchen, imagining the meals Will has had here. "You have a nice house."

Once again, Will senses the loneliness in Peter's words. "Thanks. It's home. You sure you don't want something? A snack?"

Peter is touched by Will's nurturing side. He leans his arms on the island at the center of the kitchen and asks, "Something to drink?"

"Well, as an FBI agent, I can't offer you a beer, but you're welcome to anything in the fridge."

With a smirk, Peter strides to the refrigerator. It was worth a shot, anyway. He scans the interior. It was just as Agent Graham described: lots of takeout containers along with bottles of beer and sodas. Peter glances back at the young agent and hold up one of the bottles of soda as if to say, See, I'm being a good boy.

"I said I couldn't _offer_."

Peter blinks. Slowly, keeping his eyes on Graham, he exchanges the soda for a bottle of the cold beer. With surprise and relief, the agent doesn't berate him. He's used to drinking around his mom, but he never would have expected Graham to be so . . . cool about it. Before he closes the refrigerator door, he grabs another bottle and puts it on the counter in front of Graham. He wonders what else the agent will let him do, and this thought surprises and intrigues him.

Will opens the beer and sips. "When's your mom coming back?"

He should lie. Because if _Agent_ Graham thinks he's alone in a motel room, he might wonder why and suspect he's into drugs or worse. "A few days." The truth just slips out. There's something about Graham's face that makes Peter want to tell him things.

"Look, I know it's none of my business, but I don't like thinking of you alone there."

Peter takes a sip of beer. "I'm a big boy, Agent Graham."

"I know that. It's not because you're young—it's because there was a murder in the room next door."

Tipping the bottle toward his head, Peter quips, "At least it wasn't my room."

"It's not funny."

"I know. But I've seen a lot of shit in my life. Trouble follows the Gypsies."

"You still need to be careful.'

"I can take care of myself."

"I'm not doubting you. I just think you should be careful. Be smart."

"Like you?" asks Peter, taking another long swallow of the cold beer.

"I'm trained for this."

"You're awfully young to be an FBI agent, aren't you?"

"Not really. You're just being blinded by my youthful charm."

Peter smiles shyly and takes another sip. He's not sure what's happening here, but he's sure of one thing: he likes it. And he likes Agent Graham. What started out as suspicion for the law-enforcement agent is slowly turning into trust.

A clap of thunder shakes him from his trance, and some of the dogs, which have gathered around them after being sated, begin to whine. Peter reaches down and pets the nearest one. "Someone doesn't like thunder."

"They all had rough lives before they came to me," Will says, scooping up the newest dog and settling him in his lap. "So they tend to be a little skittish."

"What about you, Agent Graham. Does anything scare you?"

"Of course. I've seen a lot of shit, too. I'd be a fool if the world didn't scare me at least a little."

"Is that why you became a cop?"

"I became a cop because I'm good at it."

How good, Peter wonders, once again concerned that too much digging by the young, attractive FBI agent could mean bad things for Peter. He's a good cop with a good heart, though, he reminds himself, as the dogs surround them, eager for attention from their master and his new friend." Is that why you went back to the motel?" he asks.

"I wanted to see if I missed anything."

"Did you?"

"I don't know. I got . . . distracted."

Peter runs his tongue over his teeth. "Distracted, huh? By what?" He steps toward the counter and leans his forearms on the smooth granite surface.

"Strays."

Plural. Peter picks up on that right away. He isn't just talking about the dog. He looks over at the mutt, who is perfectly content getting to know his new family." So what are you going to name him?"

"I haven't really thought about it. Have you got any ideas?"

Peter shrugs. He looks at the dog, then back at Will."Afla. It means ‘found’ in Romanian."

Will goes over to the small dog and picks him up. He looks very seriously into his face and asks "Afla? Are you an Afla?" and is rewarded by a pink tongue licking his face. He turns back to Peter. "I think he likes it."

Peter flashes a shy smile, then looks around. Suddenly he feels eyes on him, and it makes him uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, because he wants to return the gaze and do much more.

"What happened just then?"

Startled, Peter's wide eyes turn to Will. "Hmm? Nothing." He can feel the eyes boring into him again, and his heart quickens. He's not sure what's happening, but one thing is certain: Peter is becoming attracted to Will Graham. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "Are you sure it's okay if I stay here?"

"Of course. If you want to. I've got plenty of room."

"The couch is fine, if you've got one."

"I've got a spare room. With an actual bed. "

Peter scratches his beard and shrugs. "Okay." He's not comfortable with taking charity, but with the storm brewing, he doesn't see that he has much choice. And truth be told, Peter likes Will's house. It has a genuine warmth to it, with the dogs. "Thanks."

"Do you want to call your mom?"

The last Peter wants to do is tell his mother he's spending the night with a cop. "Uh, no, that's okay. I spoke to her today."

"Okay." Will nods toward the living room. "You want to watch a movie or something?"

Peter nods. Something to distract him from the way he is feeling right now is just the thing. "Sure. What've you got?" he asks, rising and walking in the direction Will had gestured toward.

"Every channel known to man. I . . . I sometimes have trouble sleeping. "Will picks up the remote and hands it to Peter. "Your choice."

The living room is cozy, Peter notes, with a flat screen mounted on one wall and a fireplace built into another. Bookcases fill every other available space. "You read all these?" Peter asks, standing in front of one and scanning the titles.

"Most of them, anyway. I'm kind of a nerd."

"You're smart," Peter replies, looking over his shoulder and then back at the books. "You'd have to be, to be an FBI agent at your age, right?"

"I'm not really an agent. I'm a special investigator. That means they call me in for certain cases. The rest of the time, I teach."

"What do you teach?" Peter moves to the couch and flops down on one end. The couch is comfortable and squishy.

"Forensic science."

Peter stares blankly. "So that's like, what, solving crimes and shit?"

"Yeah, you know, all that CSI stuff."

"That's pretty fucking cool." Peter can’t imagine doing that for a living. He'd spent his life running and hiding. "So you live here by yourself?"

"Just me and the dogs."

"No girlfriend?"

"No girlfriend. I'm not good with . . . people."

Peter isn't one to judge. He's been a loner most of his life, with only his family for companionship. "You're good with animals, though."

"Animals are easy. They don't lie, they don't have hidden motives."

At these words, Peter senses that there is more to what Agent Graham is saying, that there is a specific reason for his words. "Is that why you became a cop—I mean, special investigator? To find out people's secrets?"

"Only certain people. People who aren't hurting other people can keep their secrets."

"How do you know?"

Will usually hates explaining this, but the boy's interest seems sincere. "I'm really good at putting myself into someone else's head. Seeing things through their eyes and understanding how and what they think. It's effective, but it's also . . . hard. Having those thoughts in my head."

Peter wonders if Graham has put himself inside his head and finds the idea unsettling. He has too many secrets to protect. What would the agent think of him if he knew what he was? "How do you turn it off?"

"It's not like being a mind reader. I only use it when I have to."

"So you're not trying to get into my head right now?" Peter asks with a nervous chuckle.

"Are you a serial killer?"

"No, sir!" Peter says emphatically, laughing again and holding up his hands.

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

Still, there is something about Graham's eyes. They aren't probing so much as . . . there is a loneliness in those eyes that Peter recognizes. He wonders if that's what people see when they look at him. Mostly, though, he see disgust reflected in people's eyes. Distrust. But not Graham. He could have turned Peter away at any time, but he didn't. Here he sits, in this warm, comfortable house. "Well, that's a relief," he jokes.

"It's not something I talk about much."

"I'm sorry," Peter says, shaking his head as though waking himself up. "I didn't mean to . . . I wasn't trying to pry."

"I didn't think you were. I just . . . I feel like I can trust you. And that doesn't happen a lot."

"Why?"

"I think I see too much negative stuff to have much faith in people."

"No, I mean, why do you trust me?"

"I guess I see a lot of myself in you."

A werewolf? Peter almost says. Graham seems anything but. He's kind and gentle and generous. The more time Peter spends with him, the more attracted he becomes. And that terrifies him.

"Are you surprised?"

"A little. No, a lot," Peter replies with another smile. "I can't see you living in cheap motels."

"That's where you'd be wrong. I grew up poor. My dad and I traveled around a lot. He was always chasing work. And I was always the new kid in school. Sound familiar?"

"You should have been a guidance counselor."

"I'll remember that when I have my midlife crisis."

"Yeah," Peter says, ducking his head and chuckling. He looks back at the young agent, and although he's been fighting it for a while, he has the sudden urge to kiss him.

Will meets Peter's eyes and forgets whatever he'd intended to say.

Peter breaks the trance and looks down again. "Wow," he says, laughing.

"Wow," Will agrees.

Peter licks his lips and looks back at Graham, not laughing now.

"Peter." Will's voice is quiet.

"I'm sorry," says Peter, looking up at the ceiling now, the back of his hand over his eyes.

"What are you sorry about?"

"This is getting weird, isn't it?"

"Just a little."

"I shouldn't have come."

"It's not your fault."

"I almost . . ."

"You almost . . . ?" Will is interrupted by a clap of thunder so loud it makes him jump. He looks down in embarrassment.

Peter can't stop himself. He takes Will's chin in his hand and tilts it upward, then leans in and kisses him.

Will is surprised, but at the same time, not surprised. He'd felt the attraction between them, but it wasn't something he'd planned to act on. But now, with the boy's firm mouth pressed to his, he wonders why he'd hesitated.

When Graham doesn't pull back, Peter moves closer, putting his hand on the man's cheek, his lips kissing Graham's again and again.

Will wraps his arms around Peter, gathering him closer still. Peter smells of fresh air and youth and something distinctly his own.

Boldly, Peter opens his mouth and flicks his tongue against Graham's full, luscious lips.

Peter's mouth is so inviting. Will opens his lips to allow Peter entry.

With closed eyes, Peter slips his tongue into Graham's mouth. He never thought he could be attracted to someone so . . . dangerous to him, but he can't help it. Graham's sweet mouth is irresistible.

Will knows he should put a stop to this. He'd never really thought about experimenting with men, but if he had, it certainly wouldn't be with a teenager. But somehow, Peter feels familiar and _right_.

Peter pulls back for just a moment, but then the hunger takes over and he's kissing Graham again, his hand moving to the man's hair and getting lost in the tangle of curls.

Will is seriously contemplating throwing Peter down on the couch when he's suddenly pushed back. He opens his eyes in surprise to discover that Afla has jumped up and is looking for some kisses of his own.

Flushed and breathing hard, Peter moves aside to give the dog room, then chuckles in embarrassment. "Maybe I should just . . . " But he's not sure what he means. Go? Put an end to this before it goes too far?

"There's a huge storm out there," Will reasons. "If you want to stop, that's okay. But you should still stay here." As if to illustrate Will's point, the lights flicker out.

Afla whines, and as Peter's eyes adjust he reaches out a hand to pet the dog. The darkness masks the desire building in his chest, and he says quietly, "I don't want to stop."

Will squeezes Peter's shoulder, then touches Afla's head comfortingly. "It's going to get chilly in here. I'm going to start a fire."

I think you already have, Peter says to himself. He nods, then strokes Afla's fur. He watches as Agent Graham busies himself with the wood and flint, admiring how he expertly kindles the fire and has a warm glow burning in minutes. "You must have been a boy scout," jokes Peter.

Will smiles, but his eyes are sad. "I never stayed anywhere long enough."

"You had to learn somewhere."

"My father. We couldn't always find a motel. We couldn't always afford one."

The light from the fire illuminates Graham's face, and Peter sees the sadness in his eyes. Peter has become so used to moving around that anything else seems odd to him. Graham belongs here in this house, with these dogs that seem to love him so much. He gestures around the room. "But now you have this."

"Yes, I do. And you could someday, too, Will replies, rejoining Peter on the couch. "You seem like a bright kid. You can work toward whatever you want."

Peter rolls his eyes and smiles. "Sure, I'll just become a cop."

"That was my path. You need to find your own."

Leaning his head against the back of the couch, Peter almost laughs. Path? He never thought about the future. He never thought past the next day. He's a Gypsy and a werewolf, and he always would be. "You make it sound so easy."

"I never said it was easy. But it's worth working for, if it's what you want."

"I don't know what I want. Well, except for . . . "

"Except for?"

Peter moves closer to Graham and puts a hand on his face. "This." And then he kisses him again.

Will sinks into the kiss, letting himself enjoy it physically while his busy mind rushes on, wondering if this really _is_ all right. Peter isn't a suspect, or even really a witness, after all. He's young, but legal. And maybe most important, when—how— _if_ to tell Peter that he's never been with a man before.

Peter stops thinking, pure animal instinct taking over, his hand moving to the back of Graham's neck, his tongue teasing, tasting, exploring.

Will has never known anyone as guarded as Peter to be as open in his desire. Even though it's completely sexual, there's an innocence, a sweetness about Peter that he can't resist. He starts to ease Peter down onto the couch, as they kiss again and again.

Fighting the urge to tear off Agent Graham's clothes, Peter gives over control to the young man, sensing a hesitation, a slight fear. Is Graham worried about Peter's age? If he only knew the things Peter has seen and done in his short life, that fear would be put to rest. Testing to see how far Graham is willing to go, Peter slips his hands to the front of Graham's body and begins to unbutton his shirt.

Will smiles into their kiss, shifting to gives Peter's hands more room to move.

Since Graham didn't push Peter away, Peter continues working the buttons on Graham's shirt until he has it open. He slips his hands inside and slides his fingers over the smooth skin of his chest, rubbing his thumbs over each nipple until it is a tight peak.

Peter's warm fingers on his skin break down the last of Will's resistance, and he starts tugging at Peter's T-shirt.

Reluctant to break contact, Peter nevertheless raises his arms to allow Graham to relieve him of his shirt. Again, that voice inside him is screaming for Peter to stop, that Graham is an FBI agent, but Peter shuts it down and pulls Graham down into another, more passionate, kiss.

The kissing, coupled with the sensation of skin against skin is almost too exciting. Will pushes back a bit to take a deep breath and strokes Peter's hair back from his face.

"Are you okay?" Peter asks, concerned that maybe they really have gone too far.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Will uses his fingers to soothe Peter's troubled expression. "You're just . . . wow."

"You're not so bad yourself, Agent Graham." Peter is smiling, and then his expression turns serious as his fingers trace the contours of Graham's muscles.

"You think maybe you could call me Will?"

Blushing, Peter looks down between their bodies and then back up at Will, grinning. "Um, sure. Will," he says emphasizing the name. The remnants of the barrier between them is now shattered, yet Peter still has trouble seeing this polished, educated, kind man as an equal.

"That's better," Will says, then surprises both of them by doing what he'd been longing to and finally cupping his hand over the bulge in Peter's jeans.

Peter's eyes grow wide and he swallows, his cock pressing against Will's hand, eager to be touched. "Much better," he whispers.

Will's touch becomes firmer, more confident. He watches Peter's face intently, taking his cues from every expression, every intake of breath.

Peter squirms under Will's lean body. He brings a hand to Will's face and traces his full, pink lips with a finger.

Smiling, Will nibbles at the finger while he begins to work the button on Peter's jeans.

His heart pounding, Peter replaces the finger with his lips, and when he pulls back, he whispers, "Will."

"Is this okay?" Will murmurs, sliding Peter's zipper down.

"It's fucking perfect," groans Peter, desperate to be touched.

Will slides his hand under Peter's pants, into his underwear, over his hot, stiff erection.

Peter gasps as Will's hand touches his heat, and he grows harder under the touch. His hips begin to move in reaction. Peter locks eyes with Will, encouraging him, urging him on.

Again, Will is struck by how open Peter is about this when he's so guarded about everything else. Peter's arousal triggers Will's own, and he leans in for another kiss.

Peter grabs Will by the back of the neck, so hungry to taste him, to feel his skin against his chest. He can practically hear his heartbeat, and that makes his cock pulse even more.

Awkwardly, Will tries to peel off Peter's pants while not separating from his delicious mouth.

Peter tries to use his feet to help free himself from his pants, but he only succeeds in becoming tangled. "Hold on a sec," he says, panting. He pushes up into a sitting position and quickly strips off the remainder of his clothes. Then he pounces on Will, pushing him onto his back. "Your turn," says Peter, licking his lips. He straddles Will and starts unbuckling his belt.

Will admires Peter's body as Peter undresses him. He's no bodybuilder, but he's strong and agile and unconscious of his own beauty.

"What?" Peter asks, pausing in what he's doing and smiling, seeing something in Will's eyes.

"Just. . . enjoying the view." He traces Peter's tattoo lightly. "What's this?"

Peter shivers and looks down at the hand touching his mark. "Nothing," he says absently. "A Gypsy thing." If Will knew the truth about the mark, he'd throw Peter out on the street.

"It must be something, or you wouldn't have it."

Peter can see Will won't let this go, but he also knows he doesn't have to tell him everything. He sits back on his knees and looks toward the fire. "It stands for _gadgo_. It means 'outsider'."

Will's empathy, always hovering beneath the surface, kicks in, and he knows, viscerally, what it must be like to be an outsider in one's own community. He pulls Peter back down. "You don't have to talk about it."

For just a moment, Peter's jaw clenches and he goes into defensive mode, but then his face softens. He can sense that Will means him no harm. He can feel it in his balls, along with that other feeling. "Shee-it," he says. "It's a boring story anyway." He smiles, eyes lidded. "I'd rather do this." Then he kisses will deeply, taking Will's hand from his mark and clasping it by his head.

Will reaches up with his free hand to the back of Peter's neck, then lightly traces his hand down Peter's spine.

Peter's raises his head, his eyes locked on Will's as he releases Will's hand and lowers his pants. Tossing them aside, Peter takes a moment to take in Will's body. He still has his shirt on, though it's open and revealing his smooth, pale chest, and somehow that excites Peter even more. He climbs back on top of Will, propping himself up on his arms, and dips down for another deep kiss. Then his lips travel downward, to Will's neck, and Peter pauses there, breathing in Will's delicious, manly scent.

Will lets his head fall back, reveling in the sensation of Peter's lips on his lips, Peter's skin on his skin.

As Peter kisses his way across Will's collarbone, he savors every contour, every muscle his lips touch, and when he works his way down Will's chest, he takes his time, kissing and nipping at each tantalizing pink nipple.

Will pushes Peter's hair back so he can watch the play of the firelight over the planes of his face.

Small sounds escape Peter's throat as he continues his travels down Will's body. He dips his tongue in Will's navel and then trails his tongue lower, breathing in the musky scent of his manhood.

"Peter," Will breathes. "You don't have to . . ."

"To what? This?" And he swipes his tongue quickly along Will's long shaft.

"Yeah, that's it."

Smiling, Peter takes another swipe, then parts his lips and slowly takes Will's heat into his mouth.

Will groans happily, cradling Peter's head as the intense pleasure engulfs him.

Peter draws the length of the thick organ into his mouth, deep into his throat, before releasing it almost to the tip, and then drawing it back in again. He listens to every sound Will is making and then increases his rhythm.

"Again."

This time Peter uses his hands to fondle Will's balls while he moves up and down Will's cock. He hopes that Will is receiving as much pleasure from this as Peter is.

Will groans again, and his hips follow Peter's movements. He struggles to control himself, to keep himself from being too rough.

Peter grips Will's hips, quickening his rhythm, sucking and using his tongue to bring Will closer to the edge.

Will arches his back and holds on to Peter's shoulders as he comes explosively.

As Will's essence fills Peter, Peter is also filled with such emotion for the man who opened his house and heart to him. He waits for Will's tremors to subside, then crawls up to lie on top of him, kissing his cheek and nuzzling his ear. "You're fucking amazing," he whispers hotly.

Will wraps his arms tightly around Peter. "You're the amazing one."

"You've never been with a guy, have you?" Peter finally asks. He could tell all evening that there was a hesitation with Will beyond their age difference.

"Is it that obvious?"

Peter slides his hands under Will's body and wraps his arms around him. "It's kind of sexy."

"Everything about _you_ is sexy."

Peter can't help but laugh. "You definitely haven't been with any guys."

"Only a really sexy guy would have gotten me to try men."

Peter shrugs and rolls onto his side, as much as he can on this couch. He keeps a hand on Will's chest. "Someone would have come along eventually."

"You came along."

Never comfortable with attention, Peter quickly kisses Will, then pushes himself up and stands. "I think we both need a drink."

Will chuckles. "Someone can't take a compliment."

As Peter walks to the kitchen, he almost holds up his middle finger, but stops himself and waves away the remark with his hand instead. This is a cop after all, and one he just fooled around with, and in truth he likes the fact that Will seems so clean-cut.

When he returns with two cold beers he sits down on the edge of the couch and hands one to Will, gazing at the man's beautiful body.

Will props himself on one elbow so he can drink. "So, um, we didn't. You didn't . . . "

Peter runs a hand through Will's hair. "We didn't," he states, letting his words say what his heart won't allow.

"Um, so, I should . . ."

Peter shakes his head. Will isn't ready for that; he can see it in his eyes. "We don't have to do anything."

"I don't want to leave you . . . hanging."

Taking a sip of beer, Peter stares at the fire, then turns his body slightly toward Will. With a soft sigh, he takes Will's hand—the one not holding the beer—and puts it between his legs.

This is something that Will—any man—knows how to do, and he wraps his hand confidently around Peter's erection.

Peter takes another, longer gulp of beer and the puts the bottle on the coffee table. Shifting his position so that he's straddling Will, his knees on either side of Will's slender form, he gazes down with half-lidded eyes.

Will hands off his beer to Peter to put aside, then settles a hand on Peter's hip to steady him as he begins to pump in earnest with the other hand.

Peter's hands wander over Will's body as he writhes in time with the hand holding him. He dips down to kiss Will's cheek, and when he moves toward his ear he breathes hotly.

Everything feels hot—the stiff cock in his hand, the damp breath on his cheek, his own face. Will changes the rhythm of his strokes and snakes his other hand down to fondle Peter's balls.

Groaning against Will's neck, Peter begins to thrust in Will's hand, imagining himself buried deep inside the man, surrounded by his warmth.

Urging Peter along, Will wonders what it would be like to let Peter fuck him. Their bodies are so close that Will is becoming aroused again, too, and he feels urges he's never felt before.

Peter can see the desire in Will's eyes, and as excited as he is at being touched like this, he's also saddened by the intimacy. In some ways, Will is so young and has yet to experience the things Peter has. He turns his face and kisses Will, moving to his mouth, parting his lips and penetrating with his tongue, fucking him in ways he won't allow his body to do.

With his heightened empathy, Will can feel Peter holding back, but he's also very aroused. He's breathless as he meets Peter's tongue with his own and keeps his hands moving feverishly.

His cock engorged, Peter can hold back no longer. He props himself up, his sweat-soaked hair falling forward, and comes in Will's hand, his body trembling with the force.

It's the expression on Peter's face as much as the friction between their bodies that sends Will over the edge as well.

Peter collapses on top of Will, then rolls onto his side, sticky with sweat and their mixed essence. "You're an animal, Will Graham," he teases.

Will laughs companionably. "Oh, yeah—I'm a real tiger. Grr."

Peter rolls his eyes playfully and reaches over Will's body for his shirt, anything to wipe the fluids from their bodies. He settles back down, spent and tired and runs his fingers through Will's curls. "You're fucking hot," he says quietly, seriously.

"Back at you, kid," Will replies, equally seriously. He manages to peel himself up from the couch and reaches out a hand to Peter. "C'mon. Let's go to bed."

Peter doesn't think about this—he _should_ stay down here on the couch and sleep it off until morning, but he simply follows Will upstairs to his bed, into his arms, and it's there that he sleeps better than he has in a long, long time.

 Will awakens, as usual, to several pairs of eyes watching him. But when he gets up, the dogs don't follow him as they do most days, but remain watching the sleeping boy. He wonders briefly how Peter will react, but leaves the dogs to their watching as he heads downstairs to start breakfast.

The scent of bacon awakens Peter, and when he opens his eyes the dogs are lined up along his side of the bed, licking their lips and waiting. He looks to his left and sees that Will has already gotten up, and he flops back down. What am I doing here? he asks himself, though he knows the answer. He likes Will, and that's not a good thing. This won't end well. He turns back to the dogs, still waiting with anticipation. "Go on," Peter commands. "Go get something to eat." Panting happily, the dogs scurry off. Peter rummages around for something to cover himself and uses a throw blanket from the foot of the bed. He wraps it around his waist and pads down the stairs, running a hand through his messy hair.

The living room still carries the aroma of burned wood from the night before, and that scent brings back the memory of what he and Will did on the couch. Smiling, he finds his clothes and begins dressing, and as he approaches the kitchen he sees Will at the stove and stops. It's such a normal scene, thinks Peter. Making breakfast in this big, comfortable house, and that thought just reinforces the fact that Peter must leave before things get too complicated.

Will looks up. "I hope you like bacon and eggs."

Peter stays where he is and gestures with his thumb toward the door. "Um, I'm gonna just . . . get going."

"Eat something, then I'll drive you back."

Running a hand through his hair again, Peter relents. One meal, then he's out of here.

"This will be ready in a minute. The coffee's ready if you want some."

Peter isn't much of a coffee drinker, but after perusing all of the different foods even the scent of the coffee stirs his senses. His stomach growls, betraying his hunger. Don't get used to this, Peter warns himself. He fidgets, looking around the large kitchen, touching various objects.

"You seem jittery," Will observes as he puts plates on the table.

Peter shrugs, his eyes wandering. Ever since he awoke, he's had that feeling deep down. The more time he spends with Will, the harder it will be to leave. "Hungry, I guess," he says, patting his stomach.

"Sit down and eat."

Scratching his head, Peter takes a seat. He's used to his mother fussing over him, but he's not used to . . . a lover doing this. To distract himself from his growing feelings for Will, Peter busies himself with the food before him. He loads his plate and eats quickly, more because everything tastes so delicious than to avoid speaking. His eyes dart to Will, and he's once again reminded how different they are.

Will glances at the food on the table. "You need anything else? Juice? Jam?"

With a mouthful of eggs, Peter holds up his hand and swallows. "I'm fine, really. This is great. Thank you. You always eat like this?"

"Only when I'm trying to impress a guest."

"I'm impressed," Peter says matter-of-factly, taking a bite of bacon.

"Good," Will says, slipping a bit of bacon to the nearest dog.

Peter quickly finishes chewing a piece of toast and says, "I really should be going."

"You sure you had enough?"

No, Peter thinks. I want more. Of this, of you. He pats his stomach playfully. "I'm sure," he says. "Thanks. For everything."

"Let me get my keys."

The dogs whine when Peter stands, and he reaches down to pet Afla. "Take good care of him, okay?" he says to the dog.

He follows Will out to the SUV and climbs in, and they ride in silence back to the motel. It's another gray day, and as Peter stares out the window he gets a sense of finality. Something's happening, though he's not sure what.

"I'll be around the next few days," Will says as he pulls up to the motel. It looks even more depressing than he'd remembered. '"Maybe we can have lunch or something."

Peter doesn't have the heart to say no, that he has a feeling he won't be here much longer, but instead he just nods and says, "Sure. Lunch. That would be great." He wants to reach out and stroke Will's cheek and kiss him and hold him, but out here in the open, he doesn't dare. "Well, I'll see you around," he says, then opens the car door. It's then that he sees Lynda's car parked in front of their room, and his heart sinks.

"See you." Will watches Peter walk to the door, then drives to headquarters to check in.

Before Peter steps inside, he turns to see Will driving off. He hadn’t slept much the night before, being in a strange bed with someone he just met and was starting to fall for. So he lies down on the bed and dozes, and hours later he’s awakened by the sound of a key in the door.

"Hi, honey. Did you miss me?" Lynda says cheerfully as she enters.

"Every minute," Peter says groggily. "How's Destiny."

"She's fine. She said something was going on with you, though. You okay?"

"I'm fine," Peter replies nonchalantly. "What did she say?"

"She wasn't sure. Just . . . a sense that you shouldn't be here."

Peter scratches his head. "Well, as you can see, I'm fine."

"Still, it's time we got back on the road, right?"

Shrugging and looking out the window, Peter replies, "It's not so bad here."

"You want to stay, pumpkin?"

Peter shakes his head. She can't know what happened. She was worried about him enough as it was. "Let's go," he says, rising from the bed. He searches around for his knapsack and when he locates it on the floor next to the bed, begins stuffing loose articles of clothing into it.

Lynda watches Peter with a troubled expression. "Finish up here and I'll go pay the bill."

It's only been four days, but already Peter feels that sense of loneliness that overcomes him every time they move to a new place. He never intended to get involved with anyone here, yet it happened, and before he could really get to know Will Graham, he had to leave.

By the time Lynda returns, Peter's already sitting in the passenger seat, looking far away and a little sad.  He forces a smile when Lynda climbs in the car. "Where to now?" he asks.

"Wherever the road takes us."

The life of a Gypsy, thinks Peter. He flashes a sad smile at his mother and nods.

Lynda pulls out of the parking space and heads for the exit. She pauses before turning onto the street, but the driver of an oncoming car waves for her to go ahead.

Will had finished looking over his case files fairly quickly and was headed back to the motel. As he approaches, he sees a car exiting the parking lot and slows to let it go. Then he sees the passenger and his heart sinks.

Peter's eyes widen when he recognizes the car, and through his open window he gets a clear look at Will. He didn't want Will to see him leave. He wanted to disappear and leave his friend with the memory of that incredible night together.

Unconsciously he sighs and starts to mouth something, but what can he possibly say? So he simply nods, hoping that Will understands how much it's hurting him to leave like this, to not ever know what might have developed between them.

Will nods in return, watching silently as the car turns and he and Peter lose sight of each other. He sits until another car pulls up behind him and the horn blares. Then he turns into the lot and gets back to work.

The road disappears behind Peter, as so many roads before have done, but the memory of Will's kiss stays with him, and he carries it with him as he travels on. There will be another town, another motel, but there will never be another Will Graham.

 


End file.
